Teresa Contemplates
by chaviv86
Summary: Nights' musings about Jane.
1. October 18, 2009

**A/N: Real-life musings, through the voice of a fictional character.**

_Sunday, October 18, 2009_

Tonight, I watch Jane.

The way the shadows fall across his face. The stubble that has appeared there since this morning's 6 AM work call. The shape of his arms, folded behind his head. The creases in his shirt sleeves. The gradient of color in the locks of his hair. The lines of his body, stretched out on the leather sofa.

The lives contained within the folders on my desk – broken, damaged lives – fade into insignificance as I study the gentle rise and fall of my consultant's chest through the glass window. The suffering that the world contains, the pain that I am privy to every day, the injustice of it all - I find it to be soothed away by the simple presence of this man in my office. In my life.

The idea that Jane is my constancy in this world makes me smirk inwardly, but the smile does not reach my face. Any form of permanence is better than none. I crave stability. This I do know about myself.

The long arms slide out from beneath the blond curls and stretch. I hurriedly duck my head downwards, yank open the file on my desk – but I need not worry, because the arms fold comfortably across the chest before them, and the blue eyes remain hidden behind eyelids darkened by exhaustion.

Tonight, I realize that the TV shows and movies are cruel.

The relentless dance of characters, constantly unsure of where they stand in each others' lives, afraid of reaching out in the chance of being rebuffed – the stories of unrequited attraction or empty relationships, of lost romance and forlorn lovers – they have no peace, any of them. What they have is a painful existence. This is not life as it is meant to be lived.

Why can't they just let them be happy, those fictional characters? If they are my escape, let them already be where I wish I could go. Granted, it is easier for me to emotionally invest in the traumas of their lives than of my own – for they do not exist, they don't walk and breathe the air that I do – and yet I find lately that their stories only make me sad.

Tonight, I imagine Jane.

I imagine him brushing his teeth in the morning, most probably fastidious about his daily methods. I imagine Jane in the grocery store, browsing for fresh vegetables in the produce section. I imagine Jane mowing the lawn in front of his house. I think that I would like to sit on his front steps and keep him company. I wonder if he would want me there.

He is sad, this man – and yet he smiles at me so often. At everyone, I suppose. Charms his way in and out of situations with the absolute ease of one completely confident in his own skills. Are the smiles that he grants me the same as those received by everyone else? I feel a bitterness at the idea.

Tell me where I stand, Jane. Tell me who I am to you, what this is.

But you and I know, don't we, that it is better that you don't.

For a moment, I allow myself to picture having dinner with Jane. The shared repast is nothing novel – it has been done many times -but the affectionate camaraderie and open sentiments that I imagine between us stirs my heart.

Tonight, as I leave the office, I lean over and kiss Jane good night in the safe recesses of my mind.

For the moment, that is all I have, and it will have to be enough.


	2. October 20, 2009

**A/N:**

_**2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song**__**  
**__**If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me**__**  
**__**Threatening the life it belongs to**_

_**And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd**__**  
**__**Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud**__**  
**__**And I know that you'll use them, however you want to**_

**Anna Nalick, "Breathe (2 AM)"**

_Tuesday, October 20, 2009_

Tonight, it's chilly in my empty office. I sit at my desk wishing that I had a sweater.

I study the case file in front of me for the third time. I've made it a habit to always do so at the beginning of a case - review the file twice in a row, then take a break before reading through it again. It's a very efficient way to ensure that I spot all the little things that might otherwise escape my notice. It's one of the tricks I've developed that make me as good an agent as I am.

I reach to turn the page with my left hand and glance down to see what occupies my right hand. It has been unconsciously fingering the gold pendant dangling from my necklace. A heart pendant.

I don't remember where I bought the gold charm, and I don't remember how much it cost. Irrelevant, really. What matters is that when I found it in my drawer last week, I picked it up, decided that it would remind me of him, and have worn it ever since.

Jane had an absolute field day when I showed up at work wearing a heart instead of a cross around my neck. His theories and ramblings didn't bother me nearly as much as they would ordinarily have, though. How could they? The memory of him rested against my collarbone, and I had smiled at everything he said and said nothing in response.

I reluctantly drop my hand from the charm it caresses. _"Jane," _I muse. _"You would not believe the day that I had today. And you caused most of the problems."_

The mental image that my mind conjures in response smiles empathetically. _"Tell me about your day, Lisbon."_

"_Minelli got a phone call from the LAPD about your behavior yesterday, and he was so angry that he pulled out the paperwork to fire you. It took me half an hour to talk him down, Jane."_

"_Why aren't you actually telling me this?" _The blue eyes in my vision are puzzled. I fidget with my necklace.

"_I've got your back," _I mutter finally. _"You don't need to know about it. It's not a big deal."_

My illusion leans forward and gently brushes wisps of my bangs out of my eyes. Unbidden, my hand reaches up to touch the spot where his fingers hover. There is, of course, nothing there - and I feel justifiably foolish and irrationally irritated.

"Lisbon!"

Patrick Jane, in the flesh, is standing in my doorway, looking annoyed.

I shake my head quickly in an attempt to clear it, but find that it is foggy and my thoughts disjointed – much like receiving a phone call in the midst of a deep sleep.

"What, Jane? What do you want?" My words are sharper than they should be, but I don't check my tone, and he remains in the doorway while launching into his latest complaint.

Another squabble with Sam. Oh, just give it up already, Jane. Red John's case is not in your hands anymore, and honestly, I'm glad that it isn't. I know what it does to you. What he does to you.

"I'll talk to him, Jane."

He remains standing in his place, waiting.

"Later."

His upper lip disappears beneath the lower one.

"_Later_, Jane. Now do me a favor and go away."

He does, still morose.

I'm cold. I think of thick socks.

The paper in my hands swims in and out of focus.

"_You can be such a stubborn dolt, Jane," _I say to the understanding blue eyes that replace the printed words in my file. He smiles – a genuine, brilliant smile, the kind that I just know are reserved for me alone. _"You love me anyway, Lisbon."_

"_Yeah, I do, and it annoys the hell out of me," _I respond in frustration. _"I really shouldn't care about you as much as I do."_

"_Is that really what you think?" _Concern hazes over the blue. _"I'd rather sit through a three hour college lecture on forensic science than admit this to you, but you know that you're all I really have. I need you, Lisbon."_

"_Do you?" _I mumble.

"Absolutely," is Jane's response, but it is much louder than the rest of his comments, more – solid.

My head jerks up to the doorway, where Jane is comfortably settled, his lips smiling lightly and his eyebrows raised in interest.

An expletive slips through my lips before I can stop myself. How much of this conversation has been in my head, and how much has Jane been listening to?

He looks much more cheerful than he did five minutes ago, this corporeal Patrick Jane.

"So what should Sam look out for tomorrow - a plastic cockroach in his drawer, or a wire tap on his phone?" I ask tartly.

Jane's face instantly splits into a wide grin.

"Why Lisbon, what would possibly cause you to levy such unfounded accusations against me?" he asks lightly, stepping into my office and seating himself in the chair in front of my desk.

"Go away," I tell him, but it is half-hearted at best. "Don't you have anything useful to do?"

"Nope," he says cheerfully, settling himself more comfortably into his chair. "So how was your day today? Was it me that Minelli was yelling at you about?"

I give a non-committal shrug in response. I don't swallow, or look away, or increase or decrease the tempo of my blinks. Damn, I've learned a lot from this guy. From having to deal with him, more accurately.

"Hmm…" Jane tilts his head to the side, studying my poker face with interest. "Fascinating," he says, and I want to hit him. "So tell me," he continues, "What's up with the necklace?"

I glance down in surprise and instantly release the small gold piece that has been unconsciously gripped in my hand. It leaves an imprint on my palm, a thin line in the shape of a heart pressed into my skin.

"You know," says Jane, leaning over my desk. "I used to read palms…" He reaches out and takes my hand in both of his. I scowl to disguise the blush that rises in my cheeks.

"Hmm…" he traces a finger over my skin. "I see great success in your future… and good coffee…"

I find myself cracking a grin. "Really? Which line is the 'Coffee Line'?"

"Oh, it's right here, Lisbon, and as you can see, it's quite strong, very clear… and over here, this means that you'll have thirty seven children – wait, maybe that's grandchildren…"

Jane is holding on to my hand, and I am laughing, and he is smiling - a genuine, happy smile. And he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a scarf, and tells me that I have been cold all night, and why haven't I asked to borrow something?

Fantasy Jane is so much simpler, so much easier to deal with than this one.

Tonight, though, I think that I prefer Jane just the way he is.

*******************************

**A/N: I'm working on something from Jane's point of view, but it's a video, not a story. I don't have a sufficient foothold inside Jane's head to write him. In fact, I doubt that anyone is truly inside his mind except for Jane himself, the genius who writes him, and Simon Baker.**


	3. October 21, 2009

**A/N: The story status has been "Complete" since I began it, because I never intend to continue writing this… but the events that inspired this story have continued to unfold, and Teresa is going to have to go through what I am. I apologize to her.**

_October 21, 2009_

Tonight, I mull pros and cons.

Jane is slumbering soundly on the couch right now – I've checked twice already to make sure he's really asleep. Sometimes I wonder if he isn't aware of the goings-on in his surroundings even while unconscious – he has that uncanny quality of seeming to have been everywhere at every time. But I digress…

Someone told me once that whenever I'm faced with a difficult decision - a risk that I'm not sure is worth taking - I should imagine the best possible outcome and the worst possible outcome, and then weigh the two against each other and decide whether it's worth the risk.

I imagine the worst first.

_Jane throws back his head and laughs uproariously. "That's a good one, Lisbon," he chuckles. "What bet did you lose that made you have to ask me that?" He swivels around, grinning. "Let me guess, Cho and Rigsby are watching this."_

My fingers find a pen lying on my desk and begin to doodle on their own accord, blossoming patterns of meaningless shapes.

_Jane's lips curl into a mocking smile. "Really, Lisbon, did you think I'd ever go for you? I could charm the pants off of any woman I want – literally – and you actually thought I'd choose you?" He shakes his head. "Delusional."_

The shapes on my paper grow darker and harsher as I retrace them over and over again.

_Jane's face darkens and he thrusts his hand at me. I flinch, half expecting to be struck – but no, he is displaying the gold band on his finger an inch before my eyes. "Married, Lisbon," he is saying through gritted teeth. "You never can and you never will replace my wife."_

I drop the pen onto the desk and rub my eyes wearily, but I'm not finished.

_Jane's face falls into haunted lines of eternal sadness. "I can't do it, Lisbon," he whispers. "I'm an empty shell, a broken shard. I have nothing to give, not until I've healed. My past haunts me every day, and I could never subject you to what I live with."_

I think, that of all the possible bad reactions that Jane could have, this last one would break my heart the most.

I tear out the sheet of paper that I have been doodling on, crumple it up, and toss it into the wastebasket, discouraged. I'm not done yet, though. I take a deep breath, carefully unlock the small store of hope that I keep so carefully guarded, and imagine the best case scenario.

_We're walking together, Jane and I, down the boardwalk after dinner at one of the small cafes on the beach. The wind is picking up, but I'm not cold because his arm is strong and secure around me, his scent intoxicating. He bends his head and murmurs into my ear, words meant for me alone, and I look up into his clear blue eyes and smile with pure contentment, and his lips meet mine…_

My heart is pounding as I break off the scenario.

The possible outcomes of this decision flash before me in quick succession – Jane scoffing, Jane mocking, Jane angry, Jane sad… Jane kissing me softly…

No contest. Time to put my heart on the line.

By this time tomorrow night, I will have asked Patrick Jane to have dinner with me.


	4. October 22, 2009

_October 22, 2009_

Tonight, I am surprisingly calm.

It has been what - five minutes? – since I put my life on the line, emotionally speaking – and yet here I sit at my desk, perfectly composed, scribbling away in a case report.

I suppose it could have been worse. Much worse, really. His reaction wasn't nearly as bad as the scenarios I'd dreamed up. No anger, no sadness, no laughter. Just nonchalance.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Lisbon." His eyes close again, and his body settles more comfortably into the cushions beneath it. No apology. No explanation. Just nonchalance.

Well, if that is to be his reaction, it can be mine as well. It's not like I wasn't prepared for rejection – I knew my chances of success were slim. Still, it stings a bit. I'm glad I asked, anyway, after all these months of indecision. At least I know where I stand.

As I rifle through files in my desk drawer, I find that I am quite impressed with my own reaction to this whole thing. Teresa Lisbon, keepin' it together as usual. That's me…

It is with immense disappointment that I feel my eyes begin to tear a few minutes later. I sigh in resignation as I dab at them with my sleeve, careful not to leave telltale smudges. Okay, so maybe I'm a little bit sad. I did let my hopes get up… a real relationship with Jane, I had dared to imagine that it might be possible….

I bite my lips in an effort to prevent the sadness from swelling up inside me, but it must be doing so anyway, because it's getting more and more difficult to breathe. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the constriction in my lungs tighten with each laborious inhale and exhale.

I remember a shrink once telling me that the chest area is where you carry grief about relationships. It makes sense, then, this seizing in my chest. The thought doesn't reassure me.

I wonder whether it might be best for me to leave work early, to go home and curl up on the couch with a blanket. I reject the idea almost as soon as it surfaces, though – I'm tougher than that. I can deal with this. I am calm, cool, and collected, and I am taking this rejection in stride.

I feel proud of myself.

I am speaking to Van Pelt ten minutes later when I realize with utter surprise and abject horror that I am about to burst into tears. I hastily excuse myself and rush to the bathroom. My face crumples a moment before I reach its safety, and the door has barely clicked shut behind me when I collapse against it, heaving with sobs.

I desperately try to check my tears, but I hear a whisper from somewhere inside that I should leave them be, to give release to the storm that has been roused within my breast by tonight's events.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it only succeeds in augmenting my misery. My features are twisted in agony, flushed from the intensity of emotion that they convey, soaked in the tears that are pouring down my face.

I had thought, for just a little while, that I might be able to be happy – really, truly happy.

Is that so much to ask for? For someone else to make me happy?

Is it so much to ask?

_IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK?_

and I am screaming, screaming in silence, railing against the reality that I despise so much, as the anguish erupts from every pore of my body and courses down my skin.

When my tears cease a few minutes later, I am curled up pathetically on the counter by the sink, leaning weakly against the mirror, completely spent.

I wash my face thoroughly, dry it carefully, and return to my desk.

As ever, duty calls, and the world does not stop for me.

Tonight, I ache.


	5. October 23, 2009

**A/N: **

"**Now that there's no more you and me  
I'm gonna let you go  
so I can be free…"**

_**Leona Lewis, "Better in Time"**_

_October 23, 2009_

Tonight, I'm thankful.

I remember seeing a plaque once, hanging in the home of a deeply religious couple that I visited during an investigation. It said, "Pray for strength, not comfort".

It really struck me, that quote, but I was never really sure why. I didn't even fully agree with the sentiment. There's nothing wrong with wanting peace out of life.

I think I finally understand it now.

I think I've been praying for comfort for a long time, and I lost sight of the strength that I ought to have been seeking.

When's the last time I gave a guy a serious chance? It's been years. Many more than I care to admit, even to myself. After fighting my way through those teenage years of just - surviving, and then putting myself through school, and making something out of myself, and then even once I was made Senior Agent, I've been just – just kind of waiting, I guess. For that special someone to show up, white horse and all; for me to just _know_, 'this is it'.

And then Jane came along, and he was so infuriatingly – well, Jane_ – _but then I realized that I was falling for him.

And I had my reservations about it, but it was really easy, the falling part, and he was always there, and he knew exactly who I was, and he really liked me, and… and I think that maybe falling for Jane was just the path of least resistance, and he was already such a part of my life, so it just made _sense_, and it was just so easy, and so comfortable…

I spend my whole life being so damn tough on the outside, being so strong – I'd just gotten sick and tired of the fight, I just wanted to have somebody else taking care of me for once… I just prayed for comfort, to be curled up in Jane's arms, and it cost every last bit of self-control that I had not to throw myself into them. I just didn't want to fight anymore, and I didn't pray for strength at all.

But now when I can actually look at this whole scenario from the other end, now that – that Jane said no, I just think – what the hell was I thinking? Really, out of every man in the world, Patrick Jane is the one that I wanted to entrust my life to? I need – I need consistency, and reliability, and someone who shares my values – such as the "thou shalt not murder" one. Such as at that there is justice in this world, and when we try to circumvent it, then everything – everything falls apart. I've seen it happen too many times… So I fell for Jane – so what? - I'm probably one of hundreds…

You know those stupid pop songs, where the boy or girl is pining and whining for their best friend to fall in love with them? Sting, Taylor Swift – the whole "you belong with me" line – it's all crap. Seriously. Maybe he just wants to be your friend. Maybe he can be your best friend. But why would you want to twist someone's arm to date you, force someone to fall in love with you if they're not feeling it. Maybe they're not being blind – maybe you're the one who's being ridiculous.

I need someone, but now I'm beginning to realize that it isn't Jane that I'm looking for. It isn't Jane at all. He's just been standing in my field of vision every time I scanned the horizon. Not his choice. Mine.

I've been trying for so long to convince myself, and maybe Jane too, that the two of us together would work, that we're meant to be, that we would be _great_… but I've only succeeded in fooling myself. And really, what's so great about fooling a fool…?

Maybe, just maybe, yesterday wasn't a disastrous setback. Maybe it was the greatest day of my life. Because it's over now, this whole seeking of emotional comfort at any cost thing. It's time to be strong, to just – to not be afraid of what the world might do with my heart. To open it up to what's out there for me.

I'm done being the fool. There's a world of men out there – even other sensitive men, with golden blonde curls – who aren't irreparably scarred and emotionally damaged. And one of them is perfect for me, and he'll want to spend the rest of his life with me, and – I'm ready to try to find him, and I'm finally strong enough to endure whatever heartache I'll have to go through first…

I feel like I'm crawling out from a tunnel. That who I was yesterday has been birthed into who I am right now.

Pray for strength, not comfort.

Look out, world. I think I'm finally back. I'm going to be strong, all the way through. I'm going to look the world straight in the eye, as Teresa, not behind my shield of Agent Lisbon, not behind my shield of Jane…

I'm _alive, _I'm going to be _strong_, and it feels kind of wonderful.

Thank you, Jane, for saying 'no', and setting me free.

Wow, it's late. Time to close up shop here.

I sure hope this whole inspiration/positivity thing lasts. I prefer it over the crying.

Good grief. Last night I was crying in the bathroom, tonight I'm having a near-religious epiphany… Is this a normal post-rejection reaction?


	6. October 24, 2009

**A/N:**

"**Thought I couldn't live without you  
It's gonna hurt while it heals too  
It'll all get better in time…"**

_**Leona Lewis, "Better in Time"**_

_October 24, 2009_

My lungs are in that vise thing again. I'm actually getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen over the past hour. More grief?

I thought that I got over it a little too quickly. Damn. I was hoping that whole mood-upswing thing was going to last.

I suppose it's better for the grief to be trapped in my chest right now rather than all over the place, but it sure can't stay there.

I still stand by everything I said yesterday – this is a good thing, this is opening me up to the person I'm meant to meet – but I suppose I have to mourn first, all those months that I waited and wished for Jane…

Seriously – I can't breathe. I'm going home.


	7. October 28, 2009

_October 28, 2009_

"_I've heard there was a secret chord  
that David played, and it pleased the Lord  
but you don't really care for music, do ya…_

_It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth  
the minor fall and the major lift  
the baffled king composing Hallelujah…_

_Hallelujah… Hallelujah…  
Hallelujah… Hallelujah…"_

Tonight, I am humming along with the gentle music that floats out from my speakers, filling my office with the calm resonance of its notes.

It's a rare phenomenon, this playing of music while I work – but I came across this version of the song online last night, and I've been longing to hear it all day today. So I put it on. Softly. It's nice.

This singer's voice is so beautiful. The way it produces each note, caresses it tenderly, then releases it to float away in the breeze like a delicate butterfly… Breathtaking.

I steal a moment away from my work to Google the singer's name. Wikipedia promptly informs me that she was the winner of a British talent show last year, one of those reality shows that I always catch glimpses of when I take the time to surf the channels but never actually stop to watch.

I can see why she won. This girl's got it.

"_Baby, I've been here before  
I've seen this room, I've walked this floor  
I used to live alone before I knew you…"_

It occurs to me that the lyrics could be seen as being sad, but to me they are words of serene acceptance. I am singing along now, slightly marring the ethereal chords of the singer's voice, but I don't care.

"_Hallelujah… Hallelujah…"_

Van Pelt is at the door to give me the update I asked her for earlier. She seems extremely relieved by my relaxed mood. Have I really been that snippy lately? I feel a tug of guilt.

She's telling me the latest news on the case and turning to go – and then she stops, and blushes, and tells me that I look… peaceful.

That's rather forward. I raise an eyebrow at her, but I have already resumed my humming, so how cross can I really be? I smile instead and shrug in silent agreement as I return to my files. Come to think of it, I do feel rather peaceful. Serene. It's a welcome relief after the tempest of the past week.

I don't realize the full extent of the contrast between my current contentment against the past week's moods until I pass the bullpen on the way to Minelli's office and smile at Jane, who glances up at me from behind a book that he is reading on the couch. The startled surprise that flashes across his features before he returns my smile in dazzling force slows my stride. Poor Jane, I haven't been very fair to him lately, have I? He's been walking on his tiptoes for the past week… not a single complaint or rebuke, that's some sort of record for him. Well, I sure hope he doesn't resume his usual nonsense now that I've gotten over my irrational response to his desire for a platonic relationship between us.

On second thought, cue the nonsense. I think I've been missing it. Just not too much, nothing overboard… right, keep dreaming, girl.

There is a packet of chocolates on my desk when I return to my office. I am grinning as I snatch it up eagerly – look at that, I even get a prize for good behavior. I pop two pieces into my mouth before noticing the folded piece of paper underneath the bag.

I settle comfortably into my desk chair as I unfold the paper. It's a poem, which raises my eyebrows, and it's hand written, which practically lifts them into my hairline.

"Love is like the wild rose-briar  
Friendship like the holly tree -  
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms  
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in the spring  
Its summer blossoms scent the air;  
Yet wait till winter comes again  
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now  
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,  
That when December blights thy brow  
He may still leave thy garland green."

_Emily Bronte_

I read the poem three times.

Then I rise from my desk, lean out of my doorway, and call for Jane. The speed with which he responds to my summons tells me that he has been expecting it.

I invite him in. Have a chocolate, I say. They're delicious. Who are they from? Oh, a secret admirer. I'm extremely popular, you know.

He is grinning as he takes two and leans back in his chair.

I am smiling as I open the paper and push it towards him.

"Friends?" he asks.

"What makes you think I'd want to be your friend?" I ask, but I am teasing. "I'm way too cool for you, Jane."

"Ah, you wound me, Lisbon," he retorts, clutching a hand to his chest, but a familiar sparkle has returned to his blue eyes.

I am serious for a moment. "Thanks, Jane."

"Don't know what you're talking about," he says airily, reaching for another chocolate. "So anyway, I've been wanting to tell you, this case that we're working on – you're going about it all wrong, you shouldn't be focusing on the parents' friends, it's their kids' friends where the answer lies. You've pretty much been wasting your time this week –"

I throw a chocolate at him, but he catches it, and I laugh.

If my life were a movie, I think, this would be a fade to black.


	8. January 19, 2013

_January 19, 2013_

"So are you and St. Christopher coming tonight?"

Jane is leaning into my doorway, looking hopeful.

"Oh, stop it," I protest, my cheeks reddening. "You know I hate when you call him that."

"I can't help it," Jane replies, grinning. "Teresa and Christopher, it works too well. Think of all the possible names for your saintly children if you marry the guy – Gabriel, Andrew – hey, wait! There's a St. Patrick! Oh wow, Lisbon, this guy's a keeper. And your firstborn son should be named Patrick."

"Really," I say in amusement, crossing my arms. "And what color flowers should I have at the wedding? Because you know, flower arrangements are a really integral part of any ceremony…"

"You like this guy," Jane insists with a self-satisfied smirk. "I can tell. You've been wondering if this is the one… You really like him."

I roll my eyes in fond annoyance. Four years down the road, and I still can't slip anything past Jane. Well… almost anything.

"Yes, I do like him," I accede. "Very much."

I met Chris at the bookstore coffee shop this past September. He was really friendly, suggested some good books, chatted about his dogs and his nieces and his opinions on city legislature. He left the Sacramento Fire Department last summer when a collapsing garage left his left arm paralyzed. For a while I mistook my affection for him as pity, but when I started to see his sparkling smile every time I closed my eyes at night, I knew it was time to get to know him better. We've only been dating for two months, so it's much too early to say, but… well, suffice to say that I actually _have _put some thought into what color flowers I'd like at my wedding.

"Earth to Lisbon… Hellooooo…"

"Are you still here? What, Jane, what do you want?"

He knows I'm not mad at him. He always knows. Still doing his mentalist thing, after all these years… and we've still got the best close rate in the state. It's not just because of Jane's wacky brand of genius, though – it's got a lot to do with the close-knit camaraderie amongst our team.

"You never answered my question. Are you coming for dinner tonight? Ella's making something special."

Ella is Jane's wife of five months. I am immensely proud of the fact that I introduced them, having met the gentle woman with soft waves of blonde hair at a conference that I had attended and she had spoken at.

Five years ago, Ella had been living a decidedly unremarkable life as a single mother when her sleepy Massachusetts town was rocked by the brutal murder of her three children at the hands of her ex-husband. Horrified neighbors, concerned friends, and media vultures converged on her for several weeks, until they slowly dropped away and she was left to her own. She floated in the fog for two years until she woke up one morning and decided that this would be the first day of the rest of her life.

The one-woman crusade that she embarked on to prevent such horrors from ever happening again eventually led her to Sacramento. Her clear inner strength and quiet but determined passion to heal, help, and make the world a better place affected me very strongly, and I sought her out after the session and told her there was someone that I'd like her to meet.

The day that I dragged Jane to Starbucks to have coffee with me and Ella, he said not a single word in her presence, just listened and watched the two of us talk.

The day that Jane asked Ella to join him for dinner, I clasped my hands together and prayed that Jane's redeeming angel had finally arrived.

The day that Jane told Ella his plans for Red John, she told him that he was doing a dishonor to his family by perpetuating their memories in such a perverted way. When Jane harshly told her that he had seen his daughter's curls dripping with her own blood, Ella told him - very, very, quietly - that her children had still been alive when she had found them.

Jane never used his pain as an excuse again. Not to Ella, not to others, and not to himself. When Ella told Jane that revenge destroys only the one who seeks it, he believed her. The dark shadows in Jane's eyes began to fade, until they slipped away completely and were replaced by a peace unlike any I'd ever seen on the day that he asked Ella to be his forever.

And my CBI team dubbed them "Patrella" – but mostly Katie, who was only recently upgraded from rookie when Alex joined the team three months ago.

"Lisbon! Come on, I need an answer. Yes, no, maybe… any one of those will do, although the "yes" is highly preferable. It's – we've kind of got some big news to share."

I look into Jane's face. He appears hopeful, and expectant… and nervous, and excited.

"No," I say in disbelief. He cocks his head to the side questioningly, but his smile begins to widen.

"No way, is – _Jane_, is – is Ella pregnant?!"

He hesitates for a split second before blurting out, "Yes."

"_Oh my god_! Jane! That's amazing!" I shriek, jumping up and rushing to embrace him, hugging him tightly in excitement. "How are you doing?" I ask sincerely once I release him.

"Absolutely terrified. And thrilled. And very scared. And excited," he responds immediately.

"Oh wow, Jane… oh, I'm so happy for you. This is so great, Jane," I tell him earnestly.

"I don't even know – what to think," he admits frankly. "I'm still pretty much in shock. I'm so happy – so grateful – but you know I don't deserve all this," he says softly. "I really don't…"

"No, Jane, this is _exactly _what you deserve," I say forcefully. "You deserve a good life. You deserve to be happy, Jane, you've earned it. By God, you've earned this happiness."

Jane looks at my shining eyes. We've been through hell and high water together over the years, professionally, personally, mentally, emotionally… I've never let him down yet, and he's managed to earn my trust as well, against all odds.

We never did find Red John. We never stopped looking.

We also never lost sight of what we're really here for.

"Yes," Jane says. "I suppose I have."

**FIN**


End file.
